


Taste of Popcorn

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brooklyn, Fear, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, New York, Reclaiming, Uncertainty, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bookworm213 said: Hi! Saw you prompt request. Do you think you could write a post-WS fic where a homeless!Bucky's wandering the streets of NY trying to remember/regain his humanity! Don't know why but I'm a sucker for stories like that! :)</p><p>~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Popcorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm213/gifts).



> This work is unbeta'd and a prompt via tumblr. Ed Brubaker, the maker of the Winter Soldier character, had a brief cameo appearance in the movie as one of he scientists working on Bucky. I've used him again in this story.

He starts by walking. There is a base of operations in the center of the city, and it is easy enough to get there. He walks like a marionette, legs jerking underneath him and body curled over itself. He enters the base and walks to his room. The cryotube is open. It’s door easily made accessible to those who needed to use it. No one is there, and he can’t start it by himself. Someone will be by soon, he knows, so he does what he always does. He puts his weapons on the desk, he unclasps his armor, and he removes his underclothes. He walks listlessly to the cryotube, and falls as his knees give out. 

He is tired, and wet; he wants to sleep, and he wants to forget. He crawls the final few paces to the cryotube and he huddles into the back of it. He closes his eyes and he lets himself sleep. No one comes for him. 

He understands the passage of time. He wakes, fitfully, and he stares at the empty room. He wonders, briefly, if everyone has died. He thinks he wouldn’t mind it if everyone has died, but he’d like it if the tube could close and he could freeze and find peace in the cold once more. He’d like it if he can just let go. 

He understands the passage of time, and he understands the feeling of hunger when it comes over him. He understands temptation, and desire. He thinks he must be getting punished, because he failed. He didn’t kill Captain America, Steve, and so he’s been deemed unworthy. He no longer is allowed to serve. He is no longer allowed peace. 

He thinks, briefly, that he can figure out how to make it work. He manages to get to his feet and he walks to the control panel. He knows the process. He knows how it works. He knows what he needs to do. He wants popcorn. 

His fingers stall over the buttons, and his tongue licks over his lips. He’s covered in dirt and grime, and his skin tastes like salt. Salt is good on popcorn, and he remembers that butter is good on it too. His fingers are hesitating over the knobs, and he’s thinking about popcorn. There’s a carnival in his ears, and he rubs at them unconsciously. He thinks he’d like to eat some popcorn, and he lets his hands fall to his side. 

There are footsteps fast approaching, and he turns to look at the scientist who has just rushed into the room. It takes the man a few seconds to notice him, and he’s fascinated by the man’s surprise. “You’re  _here?_ ” the man asks. 

“Popcorn,” he replies. “I…have had it.” The scientist is incredulous, his eyes are big and wide. 

“What are you doing here?” the scientist asks. 

“Where…have I had it?” he asks in turn. 

“You need reprogramming.” The scientist edges closer, and he lets him. He tastes salt on his lips and he licks them again. He lifts one of his hands to his mouth and tastes the skin. It’s stale and putrid, but the salt remains, and it’s a fascinating sensation across his tongue. “Sit down,” the scientist tells him. He doesn’t move. He can hear the sound of laughter, but it’s replaced by a question. A question that he can’t understand, because the words are too muddled. It’s cold. He thinks there must be snow.  _Why would I do that?_  Someone asks him. 

There’s something else peaking through. Something that’s distracted when he feels a hand on his arm. He flails, and he watches as the scientist flies backwards. The man wets himself in fear. “You…you need…reprogramming,” the man tells him nervously. 

“Will I keep…the popcorn?” he asks as he looks towards the chair. He thinks he likes the thought of popcorn. He thinks he likes the thought of salt and butter. 

“Please, please don’t hurt me, please,” the man is babbling, and it doesn’t make any sense. He looks at the man and he tilts his head in confusion. There are lights in the room that hang like glowing orbs. He thinks they’d look best all in a row, tiny and precise, flashing and glimmering with wonder. 

“Where is…Coney Island?” the name flashes across his mind as he looks at the lights. He tastes his skin again, but the salt is all gone and he misses it. 

“Coney Island?” the man asks. It sounds right. 

“There is popcorn there, isn’t there? And peanuts.” Peanuts were salty too. His mouth waters and he thinks he likes that. “Where is Coney Island?”

“New York,” the man tells him. 

“Take me,” he walks to the table and he reaches for his clothes. He must dress. He must go to New York. 

“You need reprogramming,” the man says again. “Winter Soldier, you will do as you’re told.” The man speaks with authority he does not possess, and yet the words make him feel sick. He looks back at the man, and he wonders if he is permitted to disobey a direct order. His skin feels like it’s moving and shaking beneath him. He doesn’t feel correct. 

“The man on the bridge,” he says. “I knew him.” 

“You-you met him e-earlier-”

“I  _knew_ him.” It’s a distinction that he needs to make. “But then I didn’t,” he glances towards the chair. 

“You-you don’t-”

“Take me to New York,” he says it this time with a gun in his hands. He aims it at the scientist who squeaks loudly and nods desperately. “I require a disguise.” There’s enough implication for the scientist to quickly go and gather an outfit for him. There’s always clothes he’s meant to wear in order to stay hidden and unseen. He dresses quickly and efficiently. The scientist tries to escape once, but he catches the man with a quick hand on his shoulder. “Take me to New York,” he repeats. The man nods again, and leads him out of the room. 

They travel north. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The scientist, he learns, is named Edward. He is no one terribly important, though his presence is remembered occasionally. Edward calls him ‘Soldier,’ but it doesn’t feel right. He lets his mind ponder it as Edward drives them north. “Soldiers have ranks, do they not?”

“Not you,” Edward told him fretfully. They needed to change Edward’s clothes before they left. The scientist is now wearing too-big sweat pants and a faded shirt that doesn’t match. Edward shifts uncomfortably in them, as though it doesn’t quite match up what he’s used to wearing and why.

“Sergeant,” he says in response. “I’m a Sergeant.”

“No you’re not,” Edward attempts. “You need recalibration, you’re compromised.” He shifts the gun in his hand and gives Edward a patient look. He doesn’t remember ever being so confrontational before. It surprises him now, in truth. He is surprised with how easy it is to fight back. 

“After New York,” he says again. 

They drive in silence, and he plays the radio. The news is talking about the helicarriers crashing into the Potomac, about Captain America who is recovering in the hospital, about the info-dump online. Alexander Pierce, they say, is dead. The announcement sends a shock of surprise down his spine and he looks towards Edward in confusion.

“Are we compromised?” He asks.

“You are. You are compromised. You need recalibration-”

“No…no is not what I am asking. Are we…no longer…” words fail. He doesn’t really know what he wants to ask. There’s a thought, in the back of his head, that keeps spiraling around. It repeats itself incessantly, refuses to let lie until he gives it voice. “Good,” he says. “Got what you deserved.” He expects fear and the promise of retribution. Edward’s hands clench around the wheel, and he moves his gun again. “Take me to New York,” he states firmly, just to be sure. Edward doesn’t say another word. He just drives north.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

There is traffic on the highway, and it takes them nearly two hours longer than originally estimated in order to reach the city. When they cross the first bridge, he presses his head to the glass and looks out to see the skyscrapers and the rivers. He feels a thrill of excitement as he looks at the tallest buildings.

He feels like he has stepped out of a fog. He looks at the buildings and he thinks, _so they finally finished that._ He looks at the park and he thinks, _just the same_. He thinks he must not have been here too often. The streets and avenues have familiar names, but he doesn’t know where they lead. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He thinks he never really knew before either, and that that had been part of the adventure.

Adventure.

He doesn’t know why that word came to mind, but he thinks it now and sees a flash of a world cast in sepia tones, steam bellowing from the underground as a small boy rushes ahead. The boy turns back, says something that he cannot hear, and holds out his hand as they go to look at a Christmas show. It was an adventure, one that they had been in trouble for going on. He feels an emotion that is both happy and slightly shame faced, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt that way before. Chastised, he recalls, someone chastised him about his adventure.

It wasn’t one of his handlers, though. He remembers when he disappointed them he was punished. He faced recalibration. He was never given something so caring as a chastisement. He is also certain he never considered his missions adventures. And yet, he sits in Edward’s stolen car and he looks at the city of Manhattan, and he considers that he found this place an adventure once.

“Where is _Macy’s_?” he asks Edward.

“What?” Edward asks him back.

“ _Macy’s_ , there is a balloon…with food. Thanksgiving. It was…in the air.” He motions with his hand and he thinks about the sound of a small boy’s laughter as they watch balloons together. “It was big, always is big. Where is it?”

“You’re confused. That never happened. You never saw that.”

“No….No I did…” he remembers smelling chestnuts and not having money for them. He remembers they were foul smelling and he didn’t want them anyway. He remembers – a small boy nicking a couple from a stand and them sitting in an alley in the wet eating chestnuts and complaining about the taste that they didn’t care for. He remembers popcorn again, and the delirious feeling of enjoyment he received. “Where is Coney Island?” he asks.

“In Brooklyn…” Edward tells him.

“I want to see.”

“You’re not allowed to want-” he moves the gun and Edward falls silent. Edward is predictable, and he knows how to get what he wants.

They drive to Brooklyn, and he watches New York drift by. He watches the people and the performers, and he watches the stores and their signs. It is familiar and it is different. He isn’t sure if he likes it, but he wants to keep looking at it. He wants to keep seeing it. They pass a tall tower marked ‘Avengers’ and he remembers a mission briefing that states that the Avengers are the enemy. He thinks the enemy shouldn’t be so easy to find, but he doesn’t think much more on it.

They cross another bridge, and he looks at Brooklyn. The uncertain familiarity of Manhattan falls way to a different kind of knowledge. He immediately guides Edward. “Turn left, turn right, stop here, go forwards, right, left, right.” He has Edward stop in front of a building, and he looks at it for several long minutes. He was here once. His handlers came for him and dragged him away. It hurt, after, and he forgot he was here. He forgot that he’d tried to escape. Once. Once, he tried to escape, and he made it as far as the Steven Grant Rogers’ Tenement Housing Museum before he was found.

He tells Edward that they’re going inside, and they do. There is no one around, and he thinks that might be odd, but he doesn’t care. He goes to the door and he pushes it open, and he steps inside. He feels his body tremble as he looks around the room. There are ropes to guide tourists through the home, ropes that keep them from touching the aged personal effects of Steven Grant Rogers. He looks at the stove, and the bed, he looks at the cross on the wall, and he starts to walk through the home with slow steps. He ignores the ropes, stepping passed them as he touches everything.

It all looks wrong, and too greatly displayed. He moves photographs back to where he thinks they should be, he pushes chairs across the room. Edward watches him, but says nothing, as he reorganizes the home and makes it look properly again. He feels an itch under his skin telling him that he needs to fix this because it is wrong. Steve will be home soon, he reasons, and he needs to fix it before then.

His head starts to hurt, suddenly, sharp and definitive. He lifts a hand to his temple and he breathes in sharply. He gasps as the pain lances through his mind. His knees give out and he stares at the home and wishes it would just fix itself. “It’s wrong,” he says. “It’s wrong.” Edward moves, and he looks up. He watches Edward shift and then bolt towards the door. He rushes after him.

He catches Edward by the collar, just as he manages to jump the stairs to the ground level, and he throws him into an alley. He presses his metal arm to Edward’s throat and he hisses at him. “Why is it all wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edward replies.

“His room, he never kept it like that. It’s wrong. What’s going on? What’s-” His arm falls from Edward’s neck and he stands still. He feels something he hasn’t felt in many years. He feels something grow within him and explode across his vision. Edward is running again, but he doesn’t care. He stumbles back against the wall and draws his knees to his chest. He presses his hands to his ears and he tries to block out the noise.

There is another life, he realizes, straining to break free. He can see it in his mind, and he can feel it in his body. He remembers the man on the bridge, and he remembers knowing him. He remembers feeling pain when he thought about him, and punishment when he tried to understand who he was. He remembers, now, that that man was the one who refused to fight him. He remembers that man was Steven Grant Rogers, and the home that was wrong was also his. He remembers, and he remembers a name. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steven Grant Rogers had told him. “You’re my friend,” Steven Grant Rogers had also told him.

“You’re my mission,” he had replied. 

He is crying. Tears are on his cheeks, and he’s frightened of something. He presses his fingers to his eyes and he licks them clean. There is salt, and the salt sparks a need for that first initial flavor of popcorn. He stands up, shaking and uncertain, and he walks. He knows the way.

He walks for nearly two hours looping through back alleys and remembering a small boy that was constantly found bleeding in their corners. He finds himself shivering as he steps onto the boardwalk of Coney Island, and he walks towards a man with a cart labeled “popcorn.” He watches children come and go, and he watches them eat it with delight. He approaches, and he retrieves money he stole from someone who was careless. He hands it to the vendor and he receives his bag of popcorn.

He tentatively eats it, and he finds color explode across his vision. He sees a small boy and three young girls chatting away as the boy sketched on a pad of paper. He smells cabbage and knows its flavor. He feels an arm around his shoulder. He is called brother. The small boy looks up at him, and he feels his mouth form the words “hey Steve, having fun?” This boy is Steven Grant Rogers. He knew him. He knew him. He knew-

He is promptly sick. He drops the popcorn, watches it as it tumbles and spills across the ground. Pigeons attack the offering en masse. They flutter closer and he stumbles away. He’s frightened. He’s frightened, and he feels like he’s done something very wrong. Recalibration, he realizes. Edward was correct. He is malfunctioning, and it hurts, and he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows what will make it stop.

 _I don’t want to go._ He thinks. He runs away from Coney Island and its popcorn. He runs all the way to the Tenement Museum, and he skids to a stop as he sees the flashing lights of police. Someone has found the home and has reported it is wrong. He flees before they see him, and he does not know where to go.

He sleeps against the Brooklyn Bridge, and he washes in the river. He smells poorly, and he can’t keep the fear and the uncertainty from taking hold. He remembers, now, two conflicting realities that are warring with each other in his head. There is a voice, so familiar and tempting he wishes to call it ‘mine,’ that tells him this is right. This is home. There is another voice, far more recent and far more powerful, that insists that this is dangerous and that he needs to escape.

He is at peace with not returning to his handlers. He knows that he will lose popcorn, he will lose these memories, and he will lose that new voice that is telling him to stay in New York. He is so tired, and he hasn’t been responsible for himself in far too long. He is hungry, and he is thirsty, and he is scared of being found.

He walks every street in every borough. He walks through Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, and the Bronx. He catches a ferry to Staten Island and Fire Island. He wanders Central park. He knows time passes, and he knows he’s losing his strength. He is losing his energy. He is susceptible to losing his autonomy. Someone will come for him sooner or later, and he knows that he isn’t being careful enough to avoid detection.

He visits the Tenement Museum and he memorizes how to break in and out. He avoids its alarms and sensors. He avoids detection. He sleeps on a bed that he remembers used to be his, and he reads the placards that discuss the histories of the families who used to live here. He leaves in the morning, and he knows the police are constantly called. He knows that they are scared of the vagrant who seems to come to visit but doesn’t damage anything. He knows all of this, and he can’t bring himself to leave. He wants to go home.

He curls up on his bed and he hugs his pillow to his chest. It’s dusty and poorly maintained, and he starts to try and clean it. He pats it gently and watches the dust fly into the air. He continues working, knowing that he needs to clean it before Steven Grant Rogers returns, or he’ll catch his death.

“Bucky?” Steve asks him. He’s come before the pillows were cleaned, and he feels half hysteric at the thought.

“You gotta leave,” he says, and he doesn’t understand the accent in his voice. He thinks the quiet voice in his head has started to talk louder than everything else, and he’s scared of what will happen if it takes charge completely. He knows that voice is weak, and that voice let himself break into a thousand pieces. He knows that voice is nothing but a terrified child that just wanted to go home, and now he’s here he’s fractured and lost. He knows that if that voice is the one in command, he will be captured. He will find pain. He’ll never be able to go home again. He thinks that voice within him, who he tentatively wants to call ‘Bucky’ will break under the onslaught of the truth. There is no other voice but his own, and he’s lost ‘Bucky’ forever. He’s twisted and misshapen, and he doesn’t want to be. “You gotta leave,” he repeats. “It’s all wrong, and it’s bad to breathe, gotta go…”

“It’s all right,” Steve tells him. He walks closer. He kneels in front of him. He takes the pillow in his hands. “It’s all right now. I’m a bit better than before.” He can’t bring himself to look up at Steve. He can’t bring himself to see his face, and see what he’s looking for.

“It’s all wrong,” he repeats. “I tried ta fix it, but they keep changing it, and it’s all wrong.”

“I know. I know it is.” There’s something pained in Steve’s voice, and he looks up to see him. He needs to know what’s wrong. He has to fix it. Steve’s got tears in his eyes, and his face is slightly bruised. He remembers it being worse, on a beach, and he remembers knowing that Steve heals faster now.

His vision blurs and he twists away. He looks at the home that used to be his, and he feels his heart pound in his chest. “I wanted popcorn,” he says. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, but he supposes it’s a start.

“Did you get any?” Steve asks.

“I dropped it. Birds came.”

“They do that. Where were you?”

“Coney Island. I threw up…you did to…there was a cyclone, and then I was falling-is this payback?” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s disjointed and in pieces. There are memories, layering over themselves like cake that’s gone runny. He jumps when Steve makes a sound like he’s dying. He looks back at him, and the pillow is pulled from his hands completely. Steve reaches out and drags him forwards. His head touches Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s arm lock around him. He should feel unsafe. He should feel pinned down, but he feels tired instead. He feels like he could just sleep for a century and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve tells him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Steve?” he asks. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, yes you do. You do.” He feels his eyes starting to slip shut.

“I’m tired,” he tells him.

“Go to sleep. I’m right here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“When the war’s over…can we go home?” he thinks he’d like that. He thinks he’d like to put the pain and death to the side and just go home. He thinks he’d feel better that way.

“We already are,” Steve tells him. There are tears in his hair, and he doesn’t understand why Steve’s acting like this. His memories are shifting and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t know what’s going on anymore. He just holds on tight, and hopes that in the morning everything will make more sense.  

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt? Want to say hi? Come find me on tumblr: falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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